


whistlin my name

by mwildsides



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Biting, Collars, D/s, M/M, Puppy Play, Puppy Sam, Rimming, Rough Sex, SO, Sub!Sam, bottom!Dean, dom!Dean, except then the tables turn and dean gets fucked, topped off with a lil fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-04
Updated: 2017-04-04
Packaged: 2018-10-14 18:16:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10541892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mwildsides/pseuds/mwildsides
Summary: On the whole, Sam is really well behaved.





	

**Author's Note:**

> this is unbeta'd, save for a read over by myself, but if someone would like to be my beta in future! you can find me here on [tumblr](http://mwildsides.tumblr.com/).

Dean was never the one who wanted a dog; that was Sam’s apple-pie normal pipe dream, but Dean never had the luxury of even considering it. Too much responsibility.

 

This might be more responsibility, it might be heavier to carry, but Dean does it happily because it's one he's had his whole life, right? Take care of Sam. Make sure Sam is happy, that easy. Whatever that takes. 

 

And hell, it's no big trial for Dean, honestly, to tell Sam just how good he is. To let his brother go without words for a few hours when they have the downtime, and just  _ be.  _ It's nice for Dean, too, because it lets him zone out sometimes, really gets him calm in a way he hadn't expected. 

 

It started with the collar, in a way, but that was all Dean actually. He got it for Sam, a band of warm red-brown leather with brass hardware, all worn looking and soft in a way that reminded them both of some abstract notion of home. But the point was to give a physicality to Sam’s need to feel kept, safe, and the collar had been Dean’s answer, a reassurance as good as a ring. One Sam had reacted really well to, thankfully, face all lit up with reserved excitement as he turned it over in his hands. 

 

Now he’ll bring it to Dean when he needs some quiet, when his mind needs a rest. Dean's glad he can be the person to give it to Sam, even though Sam insisted he wouldn't do this with anyone  _ but  _ him--it's still nice. 

 

Dean wasn't very good at it the first few times, and it was fucking embarrassing. It was easy to tell Sam how good he was when Dean had his dick in him,  _ god take it so fucking good for me Sammy, so good baby boy,  _ that kind of thing came easy, but when it was just...them? Sam at Dean’s feet, looking up at his brother for that reassurance--Dean didn't do too well at first, stammered  _ uhm, good boy, Sammy, what - um - _

 

“Hey buddy,” rolls right off Dean’s tongue easy now, when Sam, on all fours, comes to sit at Dean’s feet. Dean heard him coming, the jingle of the collar (a new addition) and the faint sound of leather. 

 

He reaches out a hand that doesn't rest on his laptop, and twines it in Sam’s hair where it isn't pinned down by straps of leather. Sam of course leans into it, pushes his head insistently into Dean’s rubbing fingers. He so likes being pet. 

 

“How's it goin’?” Dean asks then, rhetorical as his fingers travel down the side of Sam’s head, then up under his jaw. He rubs around the leather straps of the hood, tilts Sam’s face up so he can look at him.

 

This, the leather muzzle and floppy, attentive ears had been Sam’s idea. He'd shown Dean the website, beet-red and unable to make eye contact for the shame, which made Dean all the more gung-ho about the idea. Yeah, maybe it struck him as weird at first, but if it was going to make Sam happy? Well, they had a home in the bunker now, a base where they have their own rooms and a place to come back to, so hell yeah Dean orders the puppy hood for Sam. Surprises him with it a week later. 

 

It's just black leather, simply riveted to give the wearer the ears, nose, and mouth of a dog, pink leather tongue and all. The bottom jaw is even hinged and strapped to move with Sam’s mouth, opening and closing when he does. 

 

And honestly? It's fucking  _ adorable _ . It almost makes Dean  _ sick. _

 

The black leather leaves plenty of room around Sam’s eyes, frames them perfectly so that when he's looking up at Dean, all puppy adoration and maybe a bit of little brother love, he's irresistible. 

Thirty years and Dean still wonders what color Sam’s eyes are.  

 

Today Sam’s got that worn old red plaid blanket that usually stays at the end of Dean’s bed, pulled out here like a place to sit and play around for a while. He's got his favorite rope toy, too, one long enough that Dean re-knotted the ends so no one without opposable thumbs could undo it, puppy gusto or not. 

 

“Got a lead on a triple homicide over in Colorado,” Dean says, and stuff like this is idle, he’s not expecting an answer. Just something he tells his dog who comes to greet him when he woke up.

 

As expected, Sam shakes his head in disinterest, ears and hair flopping, tag on his collar jangling as he does, before he turns back to his allotted space to pick up the rope toy.

 

Sammy isn't big on fetch; he's got real bony knees even with pads, and he says he just feels too awkward doing it. The hood doesn't help either, he has to use his hands sometimes. Instead he settles for tug of war, which he really,  _ really _ likes. 

 

He rounds on Dean, long rope toy between his teeth, to nose at the hand Dean's got propped on the table, scrolling newspaper articles and hacked police files online. With his nose Sam gets up under Dean’s wrist, pushes, demanding  _ play with me _ , even though he knows he’s misbehaving.

 

“Hey,” Dean tells him, stern, head cocked. “I'm working.” 

 

Truth is, Dean can spare a hand for tug of war, could spare a few hours to play with Sam right now, but that's not the point. Sam has to be  _ good,  _ Sam has to earn it. 

 

Which he is very much not doing, sitting back on his haunches and looking at Dean like that, all attitude. 

 

“What's your deal today? Go lay down,” Dean tells him, snaps his fingers and points to where the blanket is messily spread out at his feet. 

 

Because he tested and found Dean solid, Sam whines very quietly, and goes back to his blanket. 

 

“Good boy,” Dean says softly, rubs the back of Sam’s neck, and goes back to the case out in Dillon, Colorado. 

 

On the whole, Sam is really well behaved. He listens and he obeys, he's not aggressive (unless that's the kind of play Dean is okay with just then), and he's not a brat. When he  _ does _ misbehave, it's very purposeful, and when Sam is really,  _ really _ jonesing for reprimand in whatever form Dean sees fit. Then, he’ll get into Dean’s dirty laundry, tip over the basket and chew on his underwear--which is disgusting--or, when Dean is sat like he is now, Sam will get his face in close enough to a boot that he can untie the laces with his teeth. He pulls and pulls and  _ pulls _ until Dean’s boots are both sloppy untied and tight in all the wrong places. 

 

Sam will settle down and chew on the plastic tips of the laces then, very happy with his work. 

 

Punishments generally fit the crime, and are varied. 

 

Today though, Sam just seems….antsy, and that's never good, not in human Sam and not in puppy Sam, which is honestly why Dean's got half his attention on finding a case. Balance, right. 

 

“Alright,” Dean says, one wrist still balanced on the table’s edge, the other hand outstretched and open, “gimme.” He closes and opens his fingers, watches Sam perk up from where he’s been gnawing on his rope toy. The knot is frayed where Sam has been working at it most, pulling at every angle imaginable to get it undone, with no success. 

 

With a smile in his eyes only, and a few happy little pants, Sam rolls up on all fours, and sits with the rope toy in his mouth. Dean frowns. 

 

“Here, give it to me,” he says again and leans forward to make a pass, only to have Sam whip his head to the side. A deep growl rumbles out of him, one that starts low in his chest and comes out mean like gravel, does things to Dean that he really….boy, he really can’t explain what those sounds do to him. 

 

“Sam.” Dean matches the growl in tone, gets as stern as he ever does, and stares that cheeky little glint right out of Sammy’s eyes, so that the next time he grabs for one end of the rope, Sam lets him. 

 

Of course he’s pulling back on his end instantly, tugging in staccato like he wants to yank Dean’s shoulder out of it’s socket--which is honestly a possibility, because Sam is so, so strong. There’s a reason they don’t make real dogs who are 6’5 and almost 250 pounds. 

 

But he gives Dean a run for his money now, and Dean can’t divide his attention between puppy and work. With a grunt, he puts his weight into his next pull, and Sam slides across the wood floor a few inches, no thanks to the blanket under his knees. 

 

“Ha.” Dean grins, patronizing, and in retaliation Sam whips his head again with what Dean can only imagine is his full strength. It makes the rope and Dean’s arm go wobbly with the force of it, puts him off balance in his chair. 

 

“Sam!” Dean snaps, because really, Sam’s got  _ something _ up his ass tonight, and not the fun kind of stuff either. 

 

Sam goes still, mouth working on his end of the toy as he looks up at Dean, and his eyes are unreadable. He huffs, growling on the tail end, but he sits still on all fours for Dean. Today he’s just in a soft sleep shirt and sweats, because generally he doesn’t need a special get up for this. Sometimes it’s just briefs, sometimes it’s nothing but his tail plug that wags and bobs when he moves. 

 

“What’s the deal today, huh, you wanna get your ass beat? Cause you’re acting like you’re hurtin’ for it.” Dean leans forward in his chair, elbows balanced on his knees as he reaches out to rub Sam under the chin, which he preens for. Closes his eyes all pretty and tilts his head up. 

 

Really, that’s Dean’s way of asking if everything’s alright, and even if Sam decided to be bratty all day,  _ beat _ isn’t exactly what Dean would do to him. It’s the tough talk, right, to get Sam walking in line. 

 

But Sam doesn’t answer, pushes into Dean’s hand and rumbles, happy. Just attention, then, unadulterated attention. 

 

“Alright,” Dean murmurs to him, strokes a thumb up over Sam’s cheekbone where it’s just barely exposed by the hood. Sam gives a quiet  _ wuff _ of overall agreement, and bounces his head. 

 

Dean grabs the knobby end of the rope toy again and tugs, planting his feet on the wood floor and watches Sam’s face spring into excitement. His body goes tense with it too, muscles coiled and ready to exert their strength against Dean, who inevitably gets his ass tugged out of the chair and straight out onto the floor. 

 

That makes Sam  _ bark,  _ bright, sharp, and way too happy about it. His equivalent of a laugh right now, really, and Dean just lets his upper lip curl as he rights himself, just stays down on Sam’s level, because they’ll be at this for a while--he can tell. 

His tug-o-war victory gets Sam bold and playful, so that he’s bouncing around the bunker’s library, huffing and growling and yipping happily, which, even if it’s at his expense, makes Dean happy too. Sam can be a little bratty this morning if it means Dean can see him in such a good mood. 

 

“What a good boy,” Dean pants, slightly out of breath from the rolling around they’d been doing, fighting over the rope. He rubs both sides of Sam’s face, rough and tumble like always, mussing up his hair so it flops out over the leather straps of his hood. 

 

Sam’s eyes close and he pants exaggeratedly, but Dean knows he’s smiling, can just feel it in the lines of his body. He leans in to kiss Sam’s muzzle. 

 

When Dean pushes himself up off the floor, it gets Sam whining and bumping his head against Dean’s leg, and the nudging gets pretty insistent. 

 

“Hey, take it easy, ‘m just going to go get some treats, how’s that sound?” Dean lays a reassuring hand on Sam’s head when he says it, and raises his eyebrows. 

 

Sam doesn’t have his tail in today, but his hips sway because he  _ wants  _ a tail to wag. 

 

“Do some tricks for me, huh,” he says, and doesn’t mean to tip his voice low, but it goes there anyway, “show me what a good boy you are.” 

 

Sam can hear when Dean’s voice changes, because he changes a little too--he gets tense, his shoulders held back and spine straight so he looks striking, powerful, pretty. It chords the muscles and ligaments in his neck and chest, makes the collar look even more gorgeous against his bronze skin. 

 

So with a friendly little pat, Dean heads off to the kitchen. 

 

Sam gets lots of treats that come in a wide variety of iterations. Some are physical, some are honest to god food, some are for Sam when he  _ isn’t  _ all puppy-brained. Punishments are sorta like that too. Minus the food. 

 

For now, Dean settles for some beef jerky, and if Sam listens good Dean will give him an even  _ better _ treat. 

 

The manner of that treat is what he considers on the walk back, and thinks that, while this thing they do is certainly not always sexual, it ends there quite often. Sam’s okay with that, Dean’s okay with that, they’ve talked it over ad nauseam, but still Dean wonders if maybe he turns it into something sexual when it shouldn’t be. 

 

Sam can always say no, of course, can always use his safeword, and that’s reassurance enough for Dean. 

 

Like he’d been asked to, Sam is sitting straight and good and proper as he waits for Dean, on his haunches with his fists still pressed into the wood floor. It doesn’t hurt him anymore, he says, his knuckles are scared over and numb and well on their way to arthritis from their years of breaking skin and bone. Dean makes sure he gives Sam’s hands a good rub over when they’re done. Knees too. 

 

“Alright,” Dean says, leaning back against the table as he turns a few pieces of jerky around in his fingers, “shake, Sammy.” 

 

He holds out an empty palm, and quickly gets pawed at in return. Dean holds Sam’s fist for a second, then lets it fall. 

 

“Atta boy.” 

 

He tears off a little piece of jerky, feeds it to Sam under the maw of his hood. Gets a hint of warm, wet lip for his trouble. 

 

“Lay down,” Dean says next, crossing his legs at the ankle. Sam very nearly flops over onto his blanket, but resists the urge, and curls up on his side, paws cradled up near his chest. “Good boy, up.” 

 

Another piece of jerky, then Dean sighs, not sure what to ask for next. 

 

“Speak,” he barks, loud and firm in an echo of how he wants it from Sam. 

 

Of course,  _ of course _ his sweet baby brother obeys. The library rings with the sound, a sharp, deep, practised sound that gets Dean somewhere in the pit of his stomach. 

 

“That’s my boy, what a good dog.” With this reward, Dean rubs Sam’s head, behind his ears, and along the back of his neck. “Good boy for me, Sammy.” 

 

Sam whines a little. 

 

Dean sits back against the table again, and tears off a piece of beef jerky for himself as he considers Sam, who growls softly, jealous. Just a raise of Dean’s eyebrows makes him go quiet. Makes him wait. 

 

“One more, alright?” Dean tells him with a little smile. “Play dead.” 

 

With absolutely all the drama he can muster, Sam whines high and sharp, whimpers, and flops over, all his weight going jelly, and when he hits the floor Dean winces for him. 

 

“Alright Sammy, up, good boy,” he adds quickly, because even if Sam’s good at it, that’s Dean’s least favorite trick. Every time he thinks it won’t bother him, then it does, which Sam can see on his face. 

 

He gets the last piece of jerky, but chases Dean’s hand, noses into his palm and shuffles forward so he’s sitting right at Dean’s feet. A low, whiney moan rises in his throat, inquiring, begging, and he stares up at Dean so fucking earnest and pretty it breaks Dean’s heart every fucking time. The epitome of puppy eyes. Sam’s had that down for  _ years _ , that soft, gooey-caramel center look that simultaneously got him out of a lot of trouble, and into the confidence of  _ hundreds  _ of grieving women across the country. 

 

“Hows my boy, hm?” Dean murmurs, soft as the touch he gives Sam then, fingers running lightly through a patch of auburn hair. Sam’s eyes close when he turns into Dean’s palm for what feels like the hundredth time, nuzzling so soft and affectionate. 

 

“Think we’re gonna need this off for what’s next,” Dean tells Sam, still quiet, but he can’t help the smirk he’s wearing now as he fingers a strap on Sam’s hood. 

 

It draws him out a bit from the place he’s gone, but Sam nods, because they both know it’s easier without the hood, sometimes. Cute as it is, it’s not efficient for eating ass or sucking dick. 

 

Dean knows that without the hood, here, Sam feels a little vulnerable, and so he makes sure that his brother knows it doesn’t matter what he puts on or what he wears, or whatever the fuck, he’s still Dean’s. Still good for Dean, still Dean’s good boy. 

 

Without the hood, too, though, it’s hard not to lean down, catch Sam by the chin to tilt his face up into a kiss. Dean sighs into it, gentle, and keeps it chaste as much as his body is telling him to deepen it. He can’t go too hard into it right now, fuck his tongue into Sam’s mouth like he wants to, because that would break the facade they had going, and Sam would not be a happy pup then. Cue retaliation. 

 

Dean wets his lips when he sits back, placing a palm back against the table to take his weight, and rests the other against his low belly for a moment. He can see the outline of Sam’s cock in his worn old sweats by now, chubbing up and getting interested now that events have turned in it’s favor. 

 

“I think we both deserve a little treat,” Dean says, tipping his head to the side as he pulls his shirt up just enough to expose some skin, and the button and zip of his jeans. “Help me out, baby boy, and you can have it.”

 

Sam licks his lips, brazen and wet enough to leave them spit shiny, then leans forward and presses his face in against Dean’s crotch. It makes him suck in a breath, because honestly there’s. God he  _ loves _ when Sam’s does this, lavishes all that sloppy, no-holds-barred, puppy affection on Dean’s dick like it’s the best thing since that fucking rope toy. Dean hopes it is, anyway. 

 

He laces a hand in Sam’s hair, tips his head back and enjoys the light pressure of Sam’s nuzzling, the vague, damp heat of his mouth as it seeps through denim and cotton. Sam will do this, nose and lap and mouth at Dean’s cock through his jeans, until there’s a dark wet spot, Dean’s hard enough to pound nails, and the fabric is fucking painful on his sensitive skin. But god is it good. 

 

“Atta boy, Sammy,” Dean sighs, looking down to be met with the sweetest pair of eyes he’s ever seen. Sam always looks at him like that when they’re fucking and he’s all puppy-brained--it’s hard for him not to. Like this, he can love on Dean just as much as he fucking wants to and Dean can’t say a damn thing about it. 

 

He likes it, of course, but he wouldn’t tell Sam that in a million years. 

 

“Take it out now, c’mon,” he says, gives Sam’s hair a little tug of encouragement, “been doin’ good, but you still gave me attitude earlier.”

 

It's taken Dean a while to be able to say shit like that to Sam, to use his “misbehaving” against him, but in Dean’s own favor at the same time, but it plays into Sam’s basest need, the reason for all of this--to simply be good. No sacrifice and no trials, no selling his soul, or taking life to save another. Here it's simple, black and white. So Dean learned. 

 

And now Sam looks up at him, guilty, but not as much as Dean thinks he should be, cause there's still something lurking behind that shallow remorse. 

 

It can wait, apparently, because Sam is pushing up on his knees just a little further, and Dean can feel the brush of lip when his brother, his good little puppy, gets teeth on the denim around the button of his jeans. Now this, this is a skill Sam has honed during these scenes, because he refused to use his hands, and Dean thought it was best just to watch. Sam always needed a goal to work towards, didn't he, and now, like most things he practices, he could teach a class on it.

 

So he makes quick work of getting Dean’s pants open, nosing in and pulling the splay of fabric wide with his teeth. He can't help it, though, and he's nuzzling his face into Dean’s cock through his boxers, licking, tugging at the fabric like it's something offensive. Truth be told he does an okay job tugging Dean’s jeans, then boxers down, but Dean reaches down to help, because he really,  _ really _ wants Sam’s mouth on his dick right about now. 

 

Sam makes a happy little sound in the back of his throat, and his eyes close when Dean’s cock brushes his cheek. It's a pretty sight, so Dean tips his head onto his shoulder, happy to watch Sammy play with his  _ most  _ favorite toy. 

 

Blow jobs from Sam when he's like this are more “lick” than they are “blow”. He starts in with slow, long licks with the whole length of his flattened tongue, from the tip to the base of Dean’s cock, which is just the initial work over. When he deems that work appropriately done, Sam uses his broad tongue to lap around the head, this time with quick, eager strokes. As if he's tasted something he likes. 

 

“‘S my boy,” Dean murmurs low, moaning softly in appreciation, “so good, Sammy.” 

 

And Sam, god, Sam, he looks up at his big brother likes he's the fucking world, like he's candy and whiskey and everything good. The hapless sort of whine that rises in his throat has a moan on the tail end, and Sam gives Dean’s cock one more little puppy lick, before he leans in to rub his face in against it again. Dean curses under his breath, somehow always caught off guard at how much Sam loves his cock. It's fucking incredible. 

 

But he's done with it for now, apparently, nosing Dean’s stiff dick out of the way to pay the same wet hot attention to Dean's balls. 

 

It punches a sharp-edged, “ _ fuck” _ right from the deepest part of Dean’s stomach, and his cock bobs and smears over Sam’s cheek. His fingers go slack, then curl in Sam’s soft hair again, hanging on for dear fucking life because he  _ loves _ when Sam plays with his nuts, let alone gets his mouth on them. It makes him  _ clench _ , hole twitching knowing Sam is so close to where Dean wants him most.

 

“ _ Sam.” _ His voice is embarrassingly hoarse already, but who could blame him, when he's got Sam on his knees like this. 

 

Sammy, looking up again so sweetly from up under his lashes like he's 16 again and insatiable, and withdraws a little to slurp back excess spit. Fucking Christ, and Dean can feel just how wet Sam’s got him when his brother leans in again to suck Dean’s sac into his mouth. 

 

Dean breathes out like he's been hit, head tipping back like Sam’s flipped a switch and turned all his joints to molten metal. 

 

With a final, gentle suck, Sam pulls away even though he stays close, nosing affectionately at the crease of Dean’s thigh. He's waiting for more direction. 

 

“Wanna do something a little different, if that's okay with you, Sammy,” says Dean, carding his fingers back through Sam’s hair, pushing it away from his face. Little brother closes his eyes, lips slack in a happy ghost of a smile, and he nods against Dean’s thigh. 

 

“Since you been so sweet tonight, want you to fuck me. I been missin’ it and you know how I get to missing that big ole cock of yours.” 

 

With a grin, Dean winks, and shifts his weight to bring a booted foot up to Sam’s crotch. He can feel the hard line of Sam’s dick distantly under the sole of his shoe, and he presses very gently, watching as Sam’s spine straightens in one slow roll of his body. His eyes close too, tongue rubbing at his lips. 

 

“Sound okay, baby boy? My good boy,” Dean says, takes a moment to admire Sam, “want you to go all alpha on me, Sammy. Treat me like your bitch.” 

 

He doesn't pull that one out often, cause often it just sounds...weird, but this time it goes better, and when Sam’s eyes open again, it's clear he's on board with the idea.

 

In fact the heat in his eyes is all molten gold, and Dean knows that look well, all determination and more than a little predatory. That  _ really  _ gets Dean fucking weak, and when Sam gives him that look, there's nothing Dean can do; it's hard for him to speak, to move, all he hopes for is the strength to hold on for dear life. 

 

He loves it.

 

It's out of form, but Sam pushes to his feet, holding Dean’s hips for what feels like balance, but once he's drawn up to full height he uses the grip to spin Dean around so he's facing the table. He gets pushed onto his belly so hard and so fast it nearly knocks the wind right out of him, but then Sam’s breath is searing and wet at the back of his neck, and all admonishment dies in Dean’s throat.

 

Sam’s teeth are digging into the meat where Dean’s shoulder meets his neck then, not playful, not sexy, but fucking hard and with a message. It makes Dean tense at first, of course, and springs a surprised “ah, fuck!” out of him.

 

But then Sam  _ moves _ somehow, a twist of his head that Dean knows well, only usually it's a toy Sam’s trying to thrash to death, not his big brother. It hurts, it's going to bruise like a motherfucker, but then Sam is  _ snarling _ , animal and brutal and fucking mean--

 

Dean relaxes, really feels it when his dick gets pinned between his stomach and the glossy tabletop, and his skin there slips, too slick and sticky with how much he's fucking leaking now. 

 

That seems to satisfy Sam, because he's licking over the patch of skin he's nearly torn out of Dean, affectionate and soothing. 

 

“Wow,” Dean mutters, no real intent behind it but Jesus. It's never been like  _ that _ before. 

 

Sam huffs, and straightens up, making Dean acutely aware how much of Sam’s body had covered his for just a brief span of time. He's so hyper aware of Sam by now, like he can sense the displacement of air and space from how near or far Sam is from him. Dean’s sixth sense. 

 

Of course Sam is silent, but Dean hears it when those knees hit the floor, can feel just how close Sam is with the backs of his thighs. Fingers curl in the hem of his jeans and boxers both, then tug down quick, just enough that Dean’s ass is good and exposed. Sam leaves it there, makes a gruff, soft sound of appreciation.

 

When Sam employs teeth again, gentler than the last time, but still firm enough that Dean feels a bruise form under them, Dean knows better than to tense up or swear. This is something Sam’s...doing very purposefully, maybe….marking his territory.

 

Dean does tense up, but only as a shiver works it's way from his toes to his hairline. There aren't words for how much he loves when Sam marks him up, deep purples and blues and reds in the shape of teeth and mouth and fingers. Sam-shapes, and it's even better if the marks are where people can see. Cas, girls, Crowley, Dean doesn't give a shit, he likes standing next to Sam knowing people can see what the do to one another. Maybe others don't know exactly  _ what,  _ but they do, and it's their favorite little secret. 

 

And then Sam is literally nosing in between the cheeks of Dean’s ass, nuzzling right up into his crack, Sam pushing, moving his head side to side to get deep enough that his lips and tongue can reach. 

 

“Fuck,” Dean breathes against the table. The word fogs on the surface, and Dean closes his eyes, balls one hand into a fist. 

 

With no preamble, and when he apparently feels his face is pressed in close enough, Sam laps with his tongue, still using those broad, eager puppy strokes that leave Dean wet after two. Makes him open up, too, flex and relax as Sam slicks him up. 

 

It's more than getting Dean open though too, because Sam would have set in with the spade-tip of his tongue already, but instead he goes on and  _ on,  _ dragging the fat, broad flat of his tongue over and over Dean’s asshole. Dean knows it's just cause Sam  _ likes  _ it, likes what it does to Dean, how that sensitive wrinkle of skin and a dusting of blond peach fuzz hair feels on his tongue. The smell, too, he's told Dean, which he gets, because ever since he was twenty, yeah, Dean loved doing just the same to Sam. 

 

Sam hums his appreciation, dark and low like molasses in the back of his throat. 

 

“‘S good, Sammy, get it all nice and wet.” 

 

Dean just barely manages it, but his voice has lost most of the firm backing it had earlier, because now he's just thready and desperate. He just wants cock. 

 

He likes when Sam responds, but understands why he isn't now, and that's fine. This is a little new--usually Sam doesn't top when they do the puppy thing, so while it's not exactly new, it…sort of is. But hey, at least they’re keeping things fresh after a decade and a half, give or take. 

 

It feels like  _ forever _ before Sam takes the initiative to actually start licking inside; before that he favors teasing Dean, getting him all worked up and sloppy with those slow, firm swipes of tongue. Just this side of not enough, and Dean both loves and  _ hates  _ that shit, mostly because it feels like he could come just like this, dick trapped against the skin-warm and too hard surface of the table with Sam’s tongue in his ass. It’s too soon, and not at all how Dean wants this to go down.

 

Just when he’s about to ask is when Sam changes it up, of course it is, simply because Sam  _ knows.  _ Knows Dean. 

 

So he strokes in gentle with the point of his tongue, pushing in at Dean’s hole until he opens, easy as anything. At this point, this might be all it takes in terms of preparation, since Dean is so used to Sam’s cock, and even then if it hurts a little well. He certainly doesn’t mind. Still it’s incredible to feel how  _ easy _ his body lets Sam in, the small clench of muscle going lax and pliant for Sam like it just knows. 

 

Dean’s moan when it comes is pathetic and half a whine, brow furrowed like this fucking hurts him. 

 

“Sammy,” he pants, turns to press his forehead against the table. There’s spit smeared against it, from where he’s practically drooling into the wood. “Ple- “

 

Sam surfaces for the first time since he started in on Dean, only to snarl at his brother like he had before, all vicious, and Dean goes still. He really,  _ really _ doesn’t know how that makes him feel, a mixture of prey-fear and the most insane arousalhumiliationheat he’s ever felt. 

 

Alright. 

 

So this is Sam’s show. No questions, not even any asking for it. Damn. 

 

He thunks his head into the table, and reaches on hand out to hang on to the edge, since he doesn’t have any Sam to hang on to. 

 

That’s how it goes, Sam licking Dean open, brutally slow and slick, fucking searing hot as he presses in further and further with his tongue until he can’t really push any more. His nose bumps up against Dean’s tailbone, and somehow Sam doesn’t even need to use his hands to spread him at all. Real fucking talent, that he can turn Dean into a cockhungry mess without even using his hands. Dean’s honestly so desperate for Sam’s dick at this point, so fucking turned on, it rattles him. 

 

Eventually, what feels like years later, Sam pulls away and Dean can feel him panting against his hole. He clenches up around nothing, and at the surprise of cool breath on such private skin. There's spit dripping all down his taint and balls too, and it's perfectly fucking filthy, Dean loves it, he'd die for this. 

 

Sam shifts behind him again, but Dean doesn't look back or ask what he's doing, just listens to the quiet shush of clothing. Undressing, obviously, and Dean expects Sam to just push in and fuck him, send the table screeching across the library floor, but he doesn't. In fact for a little while, the only sound is their labored breathing. 

 

Finally, Sam uses his hands to pull Dean back by the hips, keeps pulling until Dean is forced to push up on his hands and step back. He stands up, feels his back stiffen in places because he's 36 going on 70, but at least then he can turn to look at Sam, figure out what's going on.

 

Sam’s naked, save for the collar. The tags are turned around, twisted on the D-ring so it shows the  _ Property of D.W.  _ in pretty, simple engraving. Dean makes himself look his little brother in the face then, and is met with an expectant expression but nothing else. Which, Dean only knows that Sam is expecting one or both of two things, so he starts with what he wants to do first, and kicks a leg up to balance his ankle on his knee to unlace his boots. He does that in turns, toes out of his shoes before he does the same with his socks, and shoves his pants the rest of the way down. The shirt he wears is the one he slept in last night, and he pulls that over his head before looking to Sam again. 

 

His changeable eyes slide to the floor as he blinks slow, and an eyebrow ticks up just a fraction of an inch. Ah. On the nice hardwood floor, awesome. Aren't they too old for this, too full of aches. 

 

Dean sighs and gets to his knees slowly, wishing he could use the blanket under them, but when Sam started in it would be a guarantee that Dean would slip all over the place. That thought slips away as Sam kneels behind him, so Dean knows he's done right. Sam likes being good to an extreme extent, but so does Dean. He preens under his brother’s attention, goes all goosebumpy when Sam nuzzles at the back of his neck and plants his fists next to Dean’s hands on the floor. 

 

With Sam all plastered along his back, Dean can feel Sam’s cock against his ass, body-warm and caught up against one cheek, and usually Dean would have asked what he was waiting for, but he keeps quiet, makes himself relax for when Sam  _ is  _ ready. Again he’s aware of the sound of his breathing, of Sam’s right in his ear, reassuring in its regularity, the quiet huff that makes him sound like he  _ hadn’t  _ just been eating ass for a solid 5 minutes. His composure is almost irritating, but when his hips sort of shift back, Dean stops caring. 

 

Still intent on using his hands as little as possible, clearly, Sam doesn’t reach back and line himself up, instead proceeds to  _ prod  _ with his dick instead, like he’s going to get real lucky and just slip right in. Dean does his best to help, arches his back real slutty like cause he knows that spreads his cheeks just a bit.  _ That _ only makes Sam’s cock catch at his hole, an agonizing slip and drag sort of tease that makes Dean whine and drop his head in frustration. 

 

Sam sort of echoes the sentiment, only his sound is a growl-grunt of frustration, hot and deep that goes straight to Dean’s gut, and  _ man _ , he’d just like to get fucked now, please. 

 

“Alright,” Dean sighs, quiet as possible for “fear” of retribution, and shifts his weight onto one hand so he can reach back and fumble around for Sam’s cock. When Sam deems that alright, Dean guides the head of his brother’s cock to his hole, holding Sam there until he pushes forward. 

 

Like it had for Sam’s tongue, Dean’s body lets Sam in like it fucking  _ knows _ , muscles parting under the onslaught because they know, they know this is how it’s supposed to be. Halfway there, Dean lets go, plants his hand again as Sam slides in, slow but uncompromising. It’s so fucking good, there’s nothing like feeling Sam fill him up, totally, till Dean feels like he’s brimming with it, can’t contain it all. It’s not even exactly pleasure, it’s just...maybe it’s the knowledge that there’s nothing left between them, that there isn’t any way to get closer than this. 

 

Which Dean sometimes laments but. That’s a talk for another day. 

 

In the real world, Sam lets out a groan that’s more human than the other sounds he’s been making, but still as pretty. It still makes Dean’s cock jump, and he wants so bad just to twist and get at Sam’s mouth, delve in with his tongue and taste himself, but that might not be on the table for tonight. 

 

Again, slow, Sam draws almost all of the way out and waits so Dean really feels the loss, then shoves right back in so he fucking feels that, too. 

 

“Fuck, Sam,” is practically pushed out of him, and again Sam starts nosing at the back of his neck, mouth open this time. 

 

He repeats what he just did about twice, a slow pull out and rough glide back in, which very nearly drives Dean crazy, but thankfully Sam sets to work after that. The pace he sets is nothing short of absolutely fucking punishing. 

 

It’s been awhile since they’ve fucked like this, Sam topping or not, hard as they both can take and completely animal. Dean can’t even do much besides hold on and listen to himself make ridiculous fucking noises every time Sam pushes home, moaning whimpers in a staccato beat that he just can’t get control over. Closing his mouth doesn’t help much, because it just ends up falling open again like he’s the dog, can’t help panting. 

 

Thankfully Sam's not much better off. Most pretenses have dropped, and he grunts and groans like he always does, though maybe there's edge to it that isn't there usually. Something sharp like the cant of his hips when he fucks into Dean. Has he been holding back, normally? But no, he used all of his strength on Dean whenever he could--or Dean thought so, but this is...just a little different.

 

It gets Dean to beg. 

 

“Sam,” he pants, voice stretching thin, “please, Sammy, cmon...please please please.” 

 

He doesn't know what he's begging for, a little mercy, or for Sam to touch him, get him off. Turn him over, let Dean see him, kiss him, because at the end of day Dean was a closet romantic and he liked that kinda shit. Not that he doesn't like this shit too. 

 

“Please what?” Sam snaps, his voice clipped and tight like when he's pissed at Dean. 

 

“Fuck, I - “ Dean still doesn't know, and the force of Sam’s thrusts have started to push him almost flat, his sweaty palms slipping on the polished surface of the floor. 

 

“Please  _ what _ ?” Sam repeats, and Dean feels his spine melt, his skin get all hot with the authoritative tone his brother uses. 

 

“Wanna - come,” he manages, the words fucked out of him on every  _ in _ thrust. 

 

“I bet.” And Sam has switched to a bemused, casual tone, which is infuriating. 

 

“ _ Fuck _ ,” Dean whines, letting his head fall so his forehead hits the floor. 

 

Sam's big hands are pushing at his hips then, and Dean only realizes it's to turn him over when his guts are empty of Sam’s girth. It's a shock he doesn't like, whimpering pathetically at the loss, and can't move for a few seconds even though Sam is doing his best to help.

 

“Dean,” Sam says, raising his voice enough to reach Dean in whatever space he's slipped away to, and it works.

 

Dean shifts with a sigh, knees popping, and turns onto his back with a mumbled  _ sorry _ . Sam shakes his shaggy head and gets a forearm under one of his brother’s knees, then shuffles in between Dean’s legs without another word. Sam presses his cock inside again with a thumb at the head and nothing else, shoving in a bit too easy after that. 

 

This position is just  _ better,  _ and Dean moans at the feeling, a low sound that doesn't really stop because Sam is getting in deep like this, pushing up against all the good spots inside Dean. It's slow at first, but then Sam starts up with those jarring, punching thrusts that basically ensure Dean’s taint is gonna be all bruised-sore from Sam’s pubic bone. That's the best kind of sore in Dean’s mind though. 

 

Then Sam’s hand is on his face, fingers spanned wide from jaw to jaw and covering Dean’s mouth even though he uses the grip to make sure Dean is looking at him. Which, it's like he's going to say something, give an order, but there's a  _ gone  _ sort of look in his eyes as he looks at Dean that says he's not saying anything anymore. 

 

Instead his first two fingers hook into Dean’s mouth, curling over the bottom row of his teeth and pinning the tip of his tongue. Like he was the one trained to commands, Dean closes his lips around those long fingers to suck, but the hold Sam has on him pulls his jaw down, open. 

 

Dean moans, eyebrows knitting up as nails dig into his tongue, and all he can taste is Sam. It starts to make him feel like if Sam fucked his fingers deeper into Dean’s mouth, he'd be full to bursting, stuffed full of Sam from both ends and unable to escape it. Mindlessly he reached up for Sam’s wrist, pulling, trying to get those fingers deeper, those fucked out little whimpers somehow escaping every time Sam’s thrusts jar Dean’s lips apart. 

 

Thankfully that seems to get to Sam, so that his hips start pumping in that smooth, slamming rhythm he takes up when he's close to coming, and god, the sound. Dean’s hole is sloppy-loose by now, the sound of their fucking slapping and wet and vulgar. Sam’s grip loosens on Dean’s face so he can push those to fingers deeper, pressing on his brother's tongue until Dean gags, then groans. 

 

He's not proud of how much he likes that, how much more he likes gagging and choking around Sam’s dick until their are tears streaming down his cheeks. His cock dribbles out precome onto his belly, and he's so fucking close he can taste it now, like dirt and salt in the back of his throat. Because he knows Sam is close too, Dean clenches up around his cock, purposeful, clutching Sam's dick so hard it’s almost pushed him out completely a time or two. 

 

And then Sam is making a pathetic sort of sound wrenched up from his gut, like coming is fucking fatal. He gets a hand on Dean’s cock, jerks him too fast and hard so that Dean sobs, makes sure that even though he's pumping his load into Dean, fucking it out of him, that Dean will be close on his heels. The feeling of Sam’s come, first spurting inside of him, then as Sam keeps fucking him with that same brutal pace, getting pushed out of Dean's hole to dribble down the crack of his ass--it's all more than enough for Dean. He seizes up, clamping down around Sam so hard it's probably painful as he shoots, come striping up his belly and chest, all the way up to the hollow of his throat.

 

There's a span of time Dean loses where Sam is still,  _ still  _ fucking pushing into him, slowing with each shove but it's all Dean can register, all he can feel; just the thick stretch of Sam’s cock, the throb of  _ heartbeat _ where he holds Dean open. 

 

He comes around when Sam's body falls over his, heavy and sweaty and familiar, and then his mouth is soft on Dean's. Sam coaxes him open there too, a gentle dip of tongue, and Dean groans into it. He's tired, hell he can't even hold his head straight, lets it fall to the side and Sam follows with a quiet laugh. 

 

“You okay?” He murmurs, holding Dean’s face for him as he looks down into it. 

 

“Hmmm,” Dean sighs, like he's considering it, but it's really just a grown of fatigue, “yeah.” 

 

He smiles up at Sam, who is already smiling back. 

 

“That wasn't too much?” 

 

Dean knows he shouldn't, because Sam’s asking is valid, but he rolls his eyes. “Get me up, Sammy, get me to bed.” 

  
  


It's stiff awkward going to get back to Sam’s room, but when they get there, Dean flops spread eagle in the middle of the bed. The position doesn't leave much room, so Sam has to lay half on top of him, tucked up under Dean’s armpit so he doesn't crush his brother's shoulder. They settle in like that, bone-weary in the best kind of way, and just a little sleepy.

 

Dean reaches down for one of Sam’s massive hands, and turns it over to look at his knuckles. They're a bit red, his scars and callouses thick skinned and white, so Dean starts kneading at them the best he can with only one hand. The other he keeps around Sam’s shoulders. 

 

“You good?” He asks, readjusting on the pillow so he can look down at Sam, who’s eyes are half closed. Sam smiles because this part is part of the routine; checking up, massaging the hurt and stiffness out of one another's limbs. To Sam it's called “aftercare” or whatever, but to Dean it's just common sense. 

 

“Very,” replied Sam, “you? Seriously wasn't too much?” 

 

“It was seriously what I asked for,” Dean says, his concentration mostly on Sam’s hand, “and anyway, I was due to get fucked into the next dimension, so no, it wasn't too much.” 

 

Sam snorts and laughs, and they rearrange so he can give Dean his other hand, which also reminds Dean with a little jingle that Sam’s still got his collar on. He pauses for a moment, hooking a finger into the leather to find it almost as supple and just as warm as Sam’s skin. He runs his finger along the edge, turns the tag over from where it says ‘SAM’, to 

 

“Property of Deaaaan Winchester,” he reads even if his name is abbreviated on the tag. Seeing it on Sam, then looking up to see Sam grin, eyes warm and hair mussed, cheeks so pretty pink, well it almost brings tears to his god damn eyes. It's just too good. 

  
“Mhm,” is all Sam replies with, humming behind his smile as he leans in to kiss Dean soft. 

**Author's Note:**

> sam is a good boy ok


End file.
